


A Parti Pris

by NicheTales



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: All of the narrators are unreliable tbh, Alpha Bokuto Koutarou, Alpha Tsukishima Kei, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, College AU if you squint, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Haikyuu Secret Santa Exchange, Interbeta Akaashi Keiji, Introducing a new concept: the Interbeta, M/M, Mild Language, Omega Kuroo Tetsurou, Omegaverse, Pathological Behavior, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-18 19:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13106775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicheTales/pseuds/NicheTales
Summary: Nothing ever works out like it's supposed to.Even years later, words can still hurt, the divide can continue to grow.They can be drowned, buried, burned and suffocated,but a decision must be made.Accompanying Artwork





	1. Drowning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hajiiwa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hajiiwa/gifts).



> > _A parti pris is the overall concept decision behind an architect's design. Also referred to as "the big idea", the term comes from 15th century France, in which "parti pris" translated to "decision taken". In modern context, a parti pris is a preconceived notion, a prejudice, a bias._

> **Drowning  
>  Akaashi Keiji **

  

  

  

_One...two..._

_Forward… back…_

Breathe. 

_Inhale_ . 

Ozone, an incoming storm perhaps, tantalizing smells from a local cafe and bakery, a man’s cologne. An alpha. Steam from Akaashi's third cup of pu'er tea. 

_Exhale_ .   

Akaashi peeks at the world around him, runs a fingertip along the ceramic rim of his cup, feels the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He doesn’t need to check the message, he knows who it is. Only yesterday that he last saw him it seems, but the date on the face of Akaashi’s phone belays that it has been nearly a full year since Akaashi graduated. 

He sips his tea, feels the heat radiate down to his toes and fingertips. It chases away the winter cold. 

His phone buzzes again. Akaashi sets it on the countertop of the coffee bar to stare at the flashing lights of the contact screen. He’s not angry. It doesn’t pain him to see Bokuto’s face or name on his screen, to hear the call of the alpha’s voice on the other end. Akaashi often finds himself wondering how much Bokuto has changed, whether or not he still looks as wild and carefree as he does in his contact photo. 

Akaashi is certain that the alpha’s voice hasn’t changed. He listens to the voicemails Bokuto leaves in his mailbox sometimes, his voice excitable and loud enough that Akaashi has to hold the phone away from his ear in self defense. It’s been long enough that the memory of Bokuto should have faded with time, but even submerged, sinking towards the bottom of a aquatic trench, Akaashi can remember exactly how Bokuto’s voice sounds, how he looks and smells, and even how he snores.  


Akaashi can hear him when he reads his text messages and emails. Bokuto is a very memorable person, from his personality to his eccentric style, and Akaashi would need amnesia to forget someone he had been so close to- _admired,_ for so long. 

But they had graduated, and there had been only Onaga and Akaashi. Then only Akaashi as he ventured into college with his own flat on the edge of campus to call home. Akaashi focuses on his studies, on work when he isn’t studying, and self improvement. He hasn’t had the time nor energy to pick up the phone for one of Bokuto’s lengthy phone calls in months. 

He’s been submerged in his own sea for so long, he isn’t sure how he would answer if he did accept the call. 

Akaashi’s excuses feel inadequate. University and work had not been consuming him recently, but he spends his time curled in blankets losing himself in a book he can’t remember the next day or sipping overpriced tea at a local cafe he’s adopted as his second home. Bokuto still calls, still messages although Akaashi rarely answers. He feels guilty, but the guilt suffocates his ability to fix the problem, ironically. 

The avoidance makes the pointless situation agonizingly worse, but Akaashi doesn’t have an explanation to offer. When his studies begin to bore him and his mind is spent blank, he still doesn’t answer. Even when Tsukishima reaches out to message him, mostly to complain that Bokuto hadn’t stopped texting him about Akaashi, he doesn’t send anything more than a reassurance that he isn’t deceased, that he’s still alive and simply busy. 

The lie started out as truth, and Akaashi had tread water grasping to that lie for so long that even when the lie began to sink, he continued gripping it tightly with white knuckles and trembling fingers, gasping for breath as he submerges with it. 

It is increasingly difficult to cling to that waterlogged lie when the bell at the storefront door chimes and Bokuto walks into the cafe with ears and nose chilled pink from the winter air, gloved fingers pulling the scarf from his face. 

_He hasn’t changed at all._

Akaashi throws back his tea, ignores the looks from other patrons and the way his throat burns, shucking his peacoat onto his shoulders to duck out of the cafe. It’s cowardly, and Akaashi considers that he should have stayed, should have taken this as an opportunity to apologize, to talk to Bokuto, but he purses his lips and weaves through the waves of people on his way back to his flat. 

It’s a miracle that Akaashi had not run into Bokuto until now, even on the populated streets of Tokyo where he commutes. It's about time that their paths intersect. A thought crosses his mind that maybe Bokuto was wandering this area specifically in hopes of running into Akaashi, but he dismisses the thought before it festers. He doesn't want to go where the thought would take him. 

Akaashi takes a sharp left at the corner of the block, dodges a wave of pedestrians and crosses the street without waiting for the light. Horns blare and tires screech, but Akaashi pays them no attention, his mind otherwise consumed. 

_Call Bokuto._

He recants the statement in his head again and again, listening to the crunch of snow beneath his boots and promising himself that he’ll do it this time. 

He’ll finally talk to someone again, specifically to his _ace-_

Because even after all this time, he is still Akaashi’s captain and ace. 

He speeds up the steps to his flat, swings into his unlocked door and dumps his coat over the back of the sofa to curl into the nest of blankets that resides there even more than Akaashi does. Three shakey deep breaths on Akaashi’s couch, and he presses dial. It rings only once, as if Bokuto had never placed the phone down and grasps it in his hand at all times. The notion is ridiculous, but so is Bokuto. 

“Akaashi! You called me!” 

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi is proud of the calm in his voice, his composure the sail to his courage. “I have.” 

It’s quiet, uncomfortable. He wishes he could see Bokuto’s face, determine how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking, but all he can do is stare at the white wall in front of him. Akaashi wants to apologize, to allow a waterfall of sound to pour from him but all he can muster is to close his mouth before it traps flies for him to choke on. To say he wishes he had more to say wouldn’t be accurate as much as that he wishes he had more he _could_ say. 

The conversation doesn’t last. After Akaashi assures him that he’s alright, and they make plans to meet up next week, the conversation is over. Akaashi has no intention of attending, but something is better than nothing. Bokuto was happy to hear from him. Akaashi isn’t sure what he had expected, but he finds relief in the thought. 

He takes a deep breathe, feels his chest expand, and the cold air chilling his very core. It’s an improvement, better than curling into blankets alone on his couch at night and reading materials for classes he can’t remember the names of. Be it only a half step, it’s a breath of air above the surface of the water he had been drowning himself in, his hands free without the branch of the lie he had been grasping for so long that he had felt the splinters in every pore of his skin. 

He wants to talk to Bokuto again. 

He wants to hear everything Bokuto has to say, everything he's done since Akaashi has been away, but Akaashi's heat is approaching, so he sets to building a fort of blankets and pillows around the television and futon to settle in for a couple days. He flicks on the screen, curls into a blanket decorated in tiny owls, a gift from Bokuto in Akaashi’s first year, and breathes a heavy sigh. 

Next time, maybe. 

He made progress, reached out to breathe and tread water above the crash of waves that threaten to drown him. 

One step at a time. 


	2. Vivisepulture

> **Vivisepulture.  
>  Bokuto Koutarou. **

****  


_Akaashi really isn’t going to come._

_He’s all alone._

_“Bokuto-san, I’m sorry, I can’t make it to your game today.”_

Bokuto swallows the rock in his throat, tries to forget how his stomach always feels full of half digested pebbles and boulders that make him heavy and ill. He’s happy it hasn’t affected his ability to play for the national team. His grip tightens around his phone at his ear, the plastic protesting at the pressure. 

“Akaashi! You said you were going to come!” He complains, but he knew Akaashi wouldn’t go. He had cancelled every other time Bokuto had scheduled anything ever since Akaashi finally called him back for the first time four months ago. 

It is progress, but it’s not enough. Bokuto needs more, he needs Akaashi to be around again. He can’t handle how Akaashi has pushed everyone away, buried himself in the solitude of his flat. He thought that Akaashi had at least been attending his classes, but when Bokuto had stopped in to see if he could catch Akaashi, he had been nowhere to be found. 

_“I’m sorry, Bokuto-san.”_

He doesn’t even offer an excuse, no reason for missing. Bokuto assumes he’s the reason, the barrier that Akaashi can’t seem to pass, but he knows from talking to Tsukishima and Konoha that Akaashi hasn’t seen anyone in months, rarely responds to messages and phone calls. Konoha had attempted once to drop by Akaashi’s flat, just to see, but there had been no one home, or so it appeared. 

Bokuto still isn’t convinced that Akaashi hadn’t been simply ignoring the doorbell, too. 

If Akaashi isn’t in classes or at home, he doesn’t know where else to look. 

“I-” 

_I’ll stop by after the game._

“...I hope you’re feeling okay, Akaashi.” 

_“I’m just tired, Bokuto-san. I’m sorry to worry you. We can reschedule another time.”_

“That’s what you said last time.”   

Bokuto flinches, drags his palm over his face and stares at the ceiling of his apartment. An expletive hangs on the tip of his tongue and he bites it to resist the urge to shout. 

_That wasn’t supposed to be said out loud._

Akaashi’s voice is quiet, almost inaudible on the other end and Bokuto hates how weak and broken he sounds, how he only seems to pull away further every time they talk on the phone. Akaashi has never been this withdrawn, never been weak or timid, and it leaves such a vile pit in Bokuto’s gut that he’s afraid it will devour him alive. 

Akaashi doesn’t allow them to meet in person, always retreats from plans at the last minute, occasionally texting Bokuto ahead of time to let him know he wouldn’t be attending, but usually just never showing, never mentioning it. Bokuto hadn’t been mentioning it either, a plateau of untouched subjects that stands between them. 

This is the first time Akaashi called him to cancel. It is something, better than nothing at all. Bokuto is too desperate to complain. He just can’t stand to see Akaashi alone anymore. There’s nothing he can do when Akaashi won’t see him, won’t allow him close enough to see what’s hurt him. He doesn't know why Akaashi hid away, isn't sure Akaashi knows, but he's never wanted so desperately to help someone in his life. 

He wants to be next to Akaashi, wants desperately to fill the cracks in Akaashi’s resolve, be the foundation beneath his feet that keeps him safe and sane. Bokuto _will-_

_He’s going to keep pushing away._

Bokuto’s never been so nervous. Fear curls his toes, pinches his bottom lip between his teeth until it’s sore, until he wants to bury his head in the sand and pretend he isn’t standing at the foot of Akaashi’s flat, a building intimidating sheerly through ambiguity. He is sure he’s passed it by hundreds of times before, and maybe he has, but he can’t escape the thought that it’s the perfect building to hide in. 

No one looks at the building, so why would anyone look at its occupants? 

He doesn’t knock, just chances that the door will be unlocked- _and it is,_ but that doesn’t quell his need to call out, to pardon his intrusion into a home he’s never been, to its owner he hasn’t seen since he fell for the sly smile and wet curls of hair sprinkled in spring rain he’s missed so much. 

Bokuto closes the door behind him, looks around the tidy apartment full of minimalist furniture and more books than Bokuto ever thought could exist in a single space outside of a library. It smells like home, comforting and soft but Bokuto can feel the pitfall he's walked into. 

_Akaashi isn't home._

He buries his head into his hands, slides back against the door till he hits the cold floor and curls into himself. Without Akaashi here, Bokuto is out of ideas, out of options, his mind as empty as the apartment he sits in, only himself and his wish to see another person sitting inside.The weight of his failure crushes him more than the loss his team suffered today. 

Bokuto doesn’t know how long he sits waiting, he might have dozed off, but feels the doorknob jab into his head and the door shove against his back with a soft expletive. He almost cusses out the door for being so rude when he realizes _doors don’t move on their own._

He scrambles to his feet, a mess of flailing limbs and the squeak of his shoes he neglected to take off against the floor as he hurried to meet Akaashi face to face for the first time since he graduated high school. 

He’s as beautiful as he’s always been, wiley locks of hair that have grown a little long, curling like his inky eyelashes, and the warmth Bokuto could feel even through Akaashi’s jacket; the heat of his cheek against Bokuto’s, the unique interbeta smell- _not quite alpha but not quite omega_ , full of strength yet sweet and just.. _Akaashi._

“Bokuto-san?!” 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto squeezes Akaashi tighter in his embrace, ignores the groceries that fall onto the floor and roll across the wood. 

“I didn’t- Why are you- _Bokuto-san,”_ A deep breath, “Why are you in my house? I didn’t want any guests today. I didn’t plan on celebrating my birthday this year.” 

_Akaashi’s birthday._

Bokuto almost checks the date on his phone but stares at Akaashi’s conflicted frown and wonders how he had possibly managed to forget that it’s Akaashi’s birthday. 

But it is an excuse to hug him again, Bokuto thinks. 

Akaashi even hugs him back, arms that wrap tentatively around Bokuto’s ribs and he buries his face into Akaashi’s nape to savor what he’s missed for so long. 

“Happy birthday, Akaashi!” 

“...Thank you, Bokuto-san.” 

He never wants to let go, never wants to let Akaashi float away from him, isolated on an island. He’s missed him so much, _his setter_ , the other side of his coin, the yin to his yang. Bokuto nuzzles Akaashi’s neck with his nose, nibbles his earlobe like he had always wanted to in high school and smiles at the hitch of breath. 

Bokuto pulls away finally, smiles, “What’s for dinner, Akaashi?” 

Akaashi stares for a moment, his expression unreadable and conflicted, before he mumbles something similar to the word _takeout_ . Bokuto beams, pulls Akaashi by the arm to shuffle past the discarded groceries to flop onto the couch, but Akaashi doesn’t follow, standing at the edge of the couch where Bokuto sits with furrowed brows. 

“Bokuto-san, why are you here?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s been nearly a year and a half.” 

“So?” Bokuto pouts, tugs on Akaashi’s hand again only for Akaashi to pull away from his grasp. 

“I don’t understand, Bokuto-san.” 

“ _I_ don’t understand! I don’t know why you ran away from everyone but it’s your birthday, Akaashi! _It’s_ _your birthday!_ We can figure out the hard stuff later!” 

Akaashi considers it for a moment before plopping down on the couch and barely flicking the television on before being pulled into Bokuto’s lap as if he belonged there, _like they had done this before-_

But it doesn’t matter, because Bokuto is so happy he’s purring, laughing so brightly at things on the screen as if the distance between them for the last year had been nothing but a lengthy blur of a nightmare. Bokuto had never been one to hold a grudge, and he celebrated life enough for the both of them. 

Bokuto pretends everything is nothing, yet the smallest of things is everything, and Akaashi is the top of a mountain he had been flailing to climb, vertigo making every step feel as if the top were only drifting further away, but Bokuto has reached the top, can breathe the fresh air he’d dreamed of. He finally managed to have Akaashi in his life again, even if he had to sneak into his apartment to do so. 

Maybe it was a little too much, like Bokuto knew he could be sometimes, but he had missed him _so much._

Akaashi feels and smells just like Bokuto remembered, just like he had missed and yearned for on nights alone, calling a number he didn’t even know was still Akaashi’s, hoping and clinging to the cliffside until he pulled himself up with help from Kuroo. 

It was all worth it, all the messages and calls, asking friends until he could finally drop into Akaashi’s life again, a pebble thrown into a stagnant pond, filling it with ripples and stirring to life the fish beneath the surface. Bokuto can be Akaashi’s foundation, the land he can cling to, sunbathe in the sands and learn to live again. 

There are always trials, bumps and roots to trip upon in the path, but he’s confident they’ll make it through like they always had back in high school.   

When he finally kisses Akaashi - _his Akaashi-_ it’s tentative and affectionate, as soft as Bokuto could ever dream to be and everything he has always needed to feel complete. 

They’ll discuss the details later. 


	3. Immolation

> **Immolation.  
>  Kuroo Tetsurou. **

****  


_Callous, apathetic, cold._

Time and time again, Kuroo hears those words in reference to the alpha, feels the spite and sees the wrinkling of a nose in disgust when they talk about him. _It’s fine_ , he thinks, less competition for a partner who seems like they would rather walk away than take care of anyone, like no one was worth the effort. 

But he’s watched him grow, watches him continue to burn brighter every time he sees him or hears his name. He blocked the strongest ace in his prefecture, one of the top three in the nation. He’s always analyzing, working around obstacles and conquering them in ways that Kuroo is proud of. Kuroo knows that Tsukishima is more than he seems, more than he allows to be seen, a fire that burns behind a closed furnace, the warmth trapped yet seeping through metal too hot to touch. 

He’s heard and felt the venom firsthand, been burned by the fire that he helped to bring to surface. A moth to flame, too enticed by the light to see it burning him until it was too late. 

So Tsukishima had refused him, had turned down his advances, his offer to spend his heats together and be something more than friends. Kuroo could cope with this, could keep an admiring friendship between them, but Tsukishima recoiled. They text on occasion. Kuroo sends him jokes, pictures of things he sees he thinks that Tsukki would like, receives short responses. 

Tsukki had never been chatty. He tries not to take it personally. 

But they had been closer before Kuroo had said anything, and he misses it. 

Kuroo moves away, but he stays in Tokyo, still only a couple hours train ride to Tsukishima, an alpha that refused him, but the distance burns a hole in Kuroo’s chest. He finds others to help him through, keep him company, keep the fire at bay. College is a busy time in his life. He doesn’t have time to worry about an alpha who rejected him in high school. 

He does anyway. When he lays in the silence of his apartment, when Bokuto finally visits Akaashi again and leaves Kuroo to his own devices, he feels it devour him from the inside. It makes him restless, an energy that he can’t fidget or pace away. It doesn’t help when he sees Tsukishima on television, his game sense strong and blocks as clever as Kuroo had ever seen them. He’s as captivating a curiosity as he had always been to Kuroo. 

It takes a month of Bokuto visiting Akaashi at least once a week for Kuroo to accompany him. Akaashi doesn’t seem to like him too much, but he’s civil. He’s certain that he’s heard some unflattering mumbles from the interbeta’s mouth when Kuroo isn’t looking, but it’s better than pacing alone at home, eating foods he shouldn’t be or exercising to overexhaustion. 

Kuroo’s pretty sure that Bokuto told Akaashi about his… _fixation_ , the heat burning him alive from within that he can’t seem to snuff out. It seems to dial down the sass, which Kuroo isn’t sure if he’s grateful for or not. It was kind of fun, and Kuroo didn’t really want the pity. Then again, if it means less crude remarks and no longer being called _pain-in-the-ass-Kuroo-san_ , he’ll take it. 

“Tsukishima-san graduates this year. He’ll be moving in with me when the term is over.” Akaashi says, setting a tray of tea and snacks on the table before the national games on the television begin. 

Bokuto mumbles incomprehensibly, his mouth full of food where he lounges across the entirety of Akaashi’s couch. 

“I don’t think that should be a concern, Bokuto-san.” 

“How did you understand anything that just came out of his mouth?” Kuroo questioned, stretching his legs across the floor. He rolled his eyes when all Akaashi provided was a half-hearted shrug. 

“He said he was worried about Tsukishima-san living with me. Bokuto-san is just being protective.” He states pointedly, eyes sharp. 

Bokuto blows raspberries with his lips, spraying food across the table and the back of Kuroo’s head with an indignant cry when Kuroo slaps his hands in his face to make him quit. 

“Gross, stop!” Kuroo snaps, ruffling his hair in disgust, “I don’t want your gross half-chewed food!” A pleading look to Akaashi gives Kuroo nothing in return, and he groans when Bokuto laughs at his vain attempt, “That’s nasty, Bo’.” 

“You can use my shower if you want, Kuroo-san.” 

“It’s fine,” he grumbles, ruffles his hair with his hand one more time for good measure, scooting across the carpet to put distance between himself and the apparent spray zone, “The tournament is about to start.” 

_And I don’t want to miss watching Tsukki play._

Tsukishima is just as immaculate and scheming as Kuroo expected him to be, excelling as a captain and sneering with a smile in the face of opponents. He tries to watch the other players just as much, but as a middle blocker himself, he finds himself always gravitating back to Tsukki. That’s his excuse that he repeats in his mind when he catches himself watching Tsukki even though the ball is on the other side of the court. 

“You should just accept it, Kuroo-san,” Akaashi states while Bokuto is away for a bathroom break. 

“You...No- I have nothing to accept. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t even know why he’s fumbling an unconvincing lie to one of the most perceptive people he knows. It’s stupid. _He’s_ stupid. 

“Kuroo-san.” 

“Yeah, stop. I know, okay? I know it’s something I’ve been working on for like two years. Got any better advice than that? Maybe something I haven’t tried yet?” 

Akaashi opens his mouth to speak- 

“Maybe not to be such an asshole, Kuroo.” Bokuto rounds the corner of the hallway, throwing himself back onto Akaashi’s couch with a grunt. 

Akaashi snaps his mouth shut. 

“I know you’re probably right, but I don’t really appreciate it.” Kuroo mumbles with sigh. 

“Don’t be mean to Akaashi for it.” Bokuto shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth, and Kuroo scoots further from the couch. A trauma response, maybe. “He didn’t do anything to you. It’s not his fault you can’t get over the meanest alpha I’ve ever met.” 

“Bokuto-san, Tsukishima-” 

“Is mean! Tsukki is so mean sometimes. I know you say he doesn’t mean it, but I think sometimes he does.” 

“Sometimes he does.” Kuroo confirms with a shrug, trying not to remember the way he had destroyed Kuroo so thoroughly when Kuroo laid his feelings bare. He doesn't want to believe it might have been one of those times. 

Akaashi hums disapprovingly, but doesn't argue, instead turning the volume of the TV up to drown out Bokuto’s loud crunching of popcorn. It’s fine. Kuroo didn’t want to talk about it anyways, didn’t want to think about the way Tsukishima’s nose crinkled and lips pursed, his pink tongue running across it almost nervously before he told Kuroo he _never wants an omega._

_Never._

_Never is a long time,_ Kuroo thinks, _a long time to be alone._

Or maybe Tsukki just wants a beta instead, doesn’t want to deal with what Kuroo does. He can’t blame him, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t burn and sting to think about. Or maybe Tsukki prefers an alpha or interbeta, someone more like himself or Akaashi. Kuroo tries not to think about it too much. 

Kuroo tries not to think about a lot of things nowadays. 

He watches Tsukishima on the screen, watches the way he wipes his sweat away with his jersey and crouches into position. Kuroo misses volleyball, misses the training camps where he played with Akaashi, Bokuto, and Tsukishima, even Hinata and Lev. He misses when Tsukishima would snicker at his jokes behind his palm, would let Kuroo tutor him in science or text him questions in the middle of the night. 

He wishes he had never said anything at all. 


	4. Suffocation

> **Suffocation.**  
>  Tsukishima Kei.  
> 

  

“Bokuto-san will be visiting this evening.” 

Tsukishima grimaces, the unspoken question given an unspoken answer. With Bokuto would be Kuroo, someone that Tsukishima has not seen in years though he would never describe himself as missing him. 

He did, and he did not. 

With Kuroo came memories of anger and hurt, of words he never should have said, never should have heard. He would like to hope that time would fade these scars but he need only see a glimpse of Kuroo in the cold doorway of Tsukishima’s and Akaashi's flat to know that time had been unkind to him, his attention just as fixated on Tsukishima as it had been all those years ago. 

It makes Tsukishima purse his lips into a sour pout with furrowed brows, excusing himself to his bedroom. He sits on his desk, thumps his head against the wall and tries not to listen in on the conversation they have in the living room but _why are they so loud?_ He breathes deeply, relaxing against the cold of the wall at his back. 

_“I’m sorry, Kuroo-san.”_

_“It’s alright. I’m not sure what I expected, really. He stopped texting me months ago.”_

Tsukishima frowns, tries to remember the last time he had texted Kuroo back, but ends up digging out his phone from his pocket to check. Two months. He scoffs, _barely long enough to be plural._

He hears Akaashi hum, wonders how Akaashi could hum loud enough to be heard through the walls and grabs his headphones to drown out the sound. His phone only has a twenty percent battery, but it’s worth it not to hear them talk about him in the next room. 

He doesn’t know when he drifted off, waking suddenly to find himself in the dark with only a small corner lamp casting Akaashi in soft yellows where he leans into Tsukishima’s doorway. Sleeping on his desk left a uncomfortable crink his his neck, removing his headphones to rub away the ache and sigh. 

“Tsukishima-san,” Akaashi repeats, amused, “Perhaps you should rest on your bed next time. I didn’t carry it up two flights of stairs just for it to look pretty.” 

He ignores Tsukishima’s sharp scowl. 

“Do you have any extra blankets or linens?” 

“Blankets?” Tsukishima repeats, fearing the way that Akaashi shifts his weight uncomfortably in his doorway, still too polite to enter without being invited. “Why?” 

“Kuroo-san needs them. The snow iced over, and it’s not safe for them to drive back.” 

“No.” 

“ _No, you don’t have any,_ or _no_ , _you won’t provide them to a guest who needs them?_ ” 

“Don’t you have some to spare?” Tsukishima deflects quietly, conscious of the thin walls. 

Akaashi hums an affirmative, “But it’s not enough for two guests. Especially not with how Bokuto-san hogs blankets.” 

Tsukishima doesn’t doubt it. 

“I’ll take the spare one off of my bed…” 

_It smells like me though._

Tsukishima leaves it unsaid, shifts to retrieve the item like requested, waiting for Akaashi to leave, but he doesn’t. 

“You’re being cruel to be nice to Kuroo-san.” Akaashi states in lackluster, as if the weather were of more pertinent interest, “But I would reevaluate how kind it actually may be, and who is benefiting from it, Tsukishima-san.” 

“What?” 

“It's not worth it. You can ask Bokuto-san or myself if you need help.” 

Akaashi walks from the doorway in silence, disappearing into the dark of the hallway just as the power flickers off with a loud groan from Bokuto. Tsukishima breathes slowly, folds the blanket as meticulous as he can muster in the dark, pressing away wrinkles with his fingertips in an attempt to stall for time.   

The news had stated there would be a winter storm, but Tsukishima had thought nothing of it at the time. He was regretting that now as the flicker of power never returned to light. His phone lays lifeless in his pocket, the battery depleted from his impromptu nap. It leaves him without a barrier. 

He sighs, presses his forehead against the folded blanket laying on the edge of his bed, kneeling as if to be in prayer, yet he feels nothing to pray for. 

Tsukishima counts his breaths, focuses on the expanse and collapse of his chest before rising to his feet with the fleece blanket in hand. 

Kuroo's form stretches across the sofa in the living room, long limbs dangling over the edge lit only by the shine of streetlights through the window and his phone hovering above his face. Always lean and casual, Tsukishima hates how he steals his breath and composure, chest tight and hands fidgeting with the frays of the fleece in his grasp. 

“Tsukki!” Bokuto exclaims, captures Tsukishima’s attention with eyes almost glowing in the dark, wide and owlish. Tsukishima doesn’t miss how Kuroo’s phone drops from his hand to slap him in the face. He almost cackles, smirks at the way Kuroo grunts and fumbles at the assault. 

He throws the blanket on Kuroo’s freshly phone-slapped face and nearly retreats back into his bedroom before Bokuto grasps his shoulder. 

“We need to go out to the convenience store, Tsukki. You should come with us!” 

Tsukishima glances to Kuroo and a shifting figure in the dark near the door he recognizes as Akaashi slipping on his boots. 

“All of us? Why?” 

“Gotta stock up.” Bokuto explains, wraps his arm around Tsukki’s shoulders and pushes him towards the door. “C’mon. You got long arms, you can carry lotsa stuff.” 

“That’s not how that works, Bokuto-san.” 

“You can drop the san,” Bokuto waves dismissively, “And it’s totally how it works! Come with and I’ll prove it to you right now!” 

“Hey!” 

Kuroo yelps as Bokuto grabs his arm and drags him from the couch onto the floor, pulling him and pushing Tsukki towards the front door. Tsukishima slaps Bokuto’s hands from his shoulder and slips on his coat. 

He manages to walk to the convenience store next to Kuroo on the sidewalk, only slipping on the slope of an unseen curb to fall in the snow once. It’s a miracle, really, considering that his attentions are consumed by the omega next to him instead of the ice and snow gleaming in the streetlights. He doesn’t look, but he can sense every movement, every breath from Kuroo beside him and smell him beneath the chill of the air. 

“Did you decide what you wanted to major in, Tsukki?” 

Tsukishima hates small talk. It’s awkward, _suffocating_ ; more awkward than just walking in silence, listening to the crunch of snow beneath their boots and Bokuto’s ever-running mouth. 

“Oceanography.” 

“Fish?” Kuroo laughs softly, “You always were as salty as the ocean, so I guess it fits.” 

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. 

They fall into silence as they reach the brightly lit entrance of the store, shucking snow off of their jackets and kicking ice from the bottoms of their boots before stepping inside. Tsukishima forgot how much he missed the warmth, sighing in relief and pulling his scarf from his mouth to breathe more freely. 

Even if he walked here with company, Tsukishima avoids them as much as he can in the store; especially with the way Bokuto draws attention to himself and can’t seem to stop dropping items on the floor for Akaashi to pick up. He finds himself lost in thought, drifting through the isles aimlessly until it’s time to leave. 

It makes him anxious to walk beside Kuroo on the way home again, the snow piling on the shoulders of Kuroo’s jacket and leaving icy crystals in his hair. It’s distracting, and Tsukishima had never liked to lose control, never liked being at a loss for what to say, how to be around someone who was supposed to be a friend. 

A friend who hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked up from the crunch of Bokuto’s boots in the snow in front of them the whole of the walk back. 

“Did you really mean it?” asks Kuroo, barely audible over the wind and Bokuto’s chatter. 

Tsukishima licks his lips, winces at how the moisture only leaves them cold in the winter air. He doesn’t know how to answer that question, but Kuroo’s looking at him, eyes searching. 

“Maybe,” he says, aware that Akaashi is listening, “That was a million years ago.” 

“The dinosaurs were a million years ago, Tsukki.” 

Tsukishima bites his tongue. 

Kuroo sighs when Tsukishima doesn’t answer, runs his gloved fingers through his hair to dislodge the snow and ice. They don’t talk for the rest of the walk. It’s more painful than the awkward conversation. 

The bags drop on the floor as soon as Tsukishima walks in, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his coat. He can’t breathe around them, needs to give himself space where he can think. The kitchen floor chills his feet through his socks, the dark of the apartment still without power making him feel more alone. It’s both a relief and just as encaging as being surrounded by hands and voices that grasp for his attention. 

He’s not surprised when he finds Kuroo enter the kitchen behind him, but it feels like an eternity waiting for it. He hadn’t realized he was waiting until it happened, pausing the rim of a glass of water touching his lips. 

“I don’t know what I wanted.” Tsukishima says before Kuroo has a chance, “I still don’t know. Stop asking.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Am I what? Sure that I don’t know?” Tsukishima snaps, “I’m pretty sure, Kuroo.” 

“What would help you decide? ‘Cause I hate this.” 

Tsukishima hates it too, hates how exhausted and exasperated the omega looks, hates the smell of stress and anxiety that radiates like a disease. He wants to hope it isn’t contagious, but it doesn’t matter since he’s already infected with it. 

“...I don’t know.” 

He sets the glass against the countertop, leans his hips against the edge to face Kuroo with arms folded and eyes downcast. Kuroo steps closer, and even in the lightless kitchen, Tsukishima can see the bags of exhaustion cast beneath his eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show that his is the same. 

“We have to figure something out, Tsukki,” Kuroo states, “I at least want my friend back.” 

_Friends._

Tsukishima wants to think he can manage that, had previously thought he could but if anything revealed his own incompetence at the task, it was this very conversation. 

“I can’t breathe when you look at me like that.” Tsukishima mutters, crosses his arms tighter across his chest with a stretch of fabric. 

“Can’t… _breathe?_ ” 

“Yeah.” 

They’re silent. Tsukishima can see the gears turning in Kuroo’s mind, processing, considering all that it might mean when Tsukishima implies his very presence suffocates him. 

“Did it always do that?” asks Kuroo finally, his touch light but startling on Tsukishima’s forearm. He hadn’t realized he’d looked away. 

Tsukishima doesn’t know why he lets him touch him, but he can’t bring up the hand to remove Kuroo’s fingers from his arm. He worries his lip with his teeth, licks over it in soothing. It doesn’t feel soothed. 

“No. Just since I learned you want more than me than I could probably give you.” Kuroo blinks, startled at Tsukki’s admission, “I’m not fit to take care of anyone.” 

“Do I really seem like I need to be taken care of, Tsukki?” 

“You can’t even take care of your hair properly,” Tsukishima smirks dryly, “I would hate to see how you handle more complicated tasks.” 

“My hair is a very complicated task, Tsukki.” Kuroo hisses, but the edge in the air softens as he grins, tension easing. He grips Tsukishima’s forearm tighter, smiles crookedly before exploding into the most hideous laughter. Tsukishima hadn’t heard Kuroo laugh in months. 

He had missed it. 

Kuroo wipes the moisture from his eye and snorts, “So, it isn’t really me, then. It’s that same lack of confidence you’ve always had.” 

_“Lack of -”_

“Your laugh is hideous, Kuroo-san.” Akaashi appraises, carting fistfulls of bags of groceries into the kitchen with Bokuto in tow. Tsukishima realizes they were probably listening, waiting outside of the kitchen. _Embarrassing._

He doesn’t miss the smile Akaashi offers him. 

It doesn’t beam quite like the one Kuroo is giving him, though. 

Tsukishima helps put the groceries away, teases that Kuroo has grown shorter since he last saw him, although he knows he’s the one who simply can’t stop growing. Kuroo comments that Tsukki has filled out, pokes him in the side with a squeak and Tsukishima swats the hand away, _-ignores it-_ ignores the way his heart flutters the same way that he ignores Bokuto nuzzling Akaashi’s nape and whispering into his ear in the middle of the kitchen. 

He doesn't need to look at Kuroo to know he's looking at him. He can feel it, the same stares he gave Tsukishima in training camps, in Kuroo's bedroom where they would study together on nights that Tsukishima could come all the way out to visit Tokyo. When Kuroo had confessed, he had bitten his lip, said that he thought Tsukishima wanted the same things as he was asking. Looking back, Tsukishima understands why he would think that. 

And he wasn't wrong. He never had been. 

Tsukishima squints when the lights flicker back to life, sighs with relief at the realization he can charge his phone again, have music to listen to and the internet as a distraction from the way Kuroo glances his way every few moments. It makes him anxious, but Kuroo’s smiling. The guilt lessens, allows him to breathe a little easier, though his heart still races and his hands shake. 

The power flickers off again, Bokuto groans, questions why the universe would tease him. Tsukishima smiles. It’s easier this way. He can breathe, laughs quietly and sees the way Kuroo’s eyebrow quirks. 

They can take things at their own pace.

**Author's Note:**

> Since this piece was rated Teen,  
> it's not addressed, but an Interbeta is an Intersex-beta.  
> They have both heats and ruts, and the experience changes from interbeta to interbeta.  
> Instead of the more common beta who has none, the interbeta juggles both.  
> That's my concept, anyways.  
> There will likely be a second part to this posted separately  
> that will explore that concept in an Explicit context.
> 
> I hope my giftee enjoyed! <3


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